“I need to tell you something, Scooter.”
Did you see that, Mom?
“I saw that.”
“Were you watching?”
“I was.”
“But you’re not watching now.”
Picture it. Scooter, snug in his thick winter coat, runs wide-legged and swift through soft sand, careening up to his elbows into the edge of ocean water that pretends containment,
I’m not sure how to respond to having just watched the movie “Everything, Everywhere, All At Once.”
One second! That’s all it took. POW! One second, plus perhaps a zeptosecond or two . . .
“Scooter,” I said. “Let’s get you groomed.” He feigned renewed interest in the movie. I set up his grooming table . . .
I’ll keep it brief, but it just seems fair that you come along with me in my attempt to return the engagement ring (ring, ring, ring . . . no answer)to MVNO company it’s best I not marry.
I thrust my hand out as a warning. Palm forward. I was serious. “I am in a good mood,” I said, “don’t mess me up.”
In the late 17th c., the English borrowed ménagerie, dropped the accent sign—of course they did, what with the French/English competition for the world wealth and dominance—but that’s a different story.
It was the toaster that caused this, wasn’t it?” I ask. I stretch full body on the bedroom carpet, lift a back corner of our matelassé bedspread, and place my hand on Scooter’s right front paw.
I had plated a rare steak, buttered peas, and salad and placed it on a TV tray, then, for a reason I don’t remember, momentarily walked away.
“She was right,” you know.” Scooter’s speech was a bit slurred. The edge of his small pillow was in his mouth as he lifted it from his bed.
It is so like us, we humans.
When we discover that we can do something, like make atomic bombs, combustible engines, angel-food cake, a ghastly scene, plastic, DDT, great music, or in this case, sheet glass; we are simply apt to do it.
Am I about to get a talking to?” Scooter asked.
Today, early this morning, looking at a setting full moon in a dark sky, curiosity grabbed my attention. “What is it about the number Twelve?”
Scooter to Mom, “Why are we sitting in the cockpit of Jim’s boat, not ours?”